


Unfortunate Son

by aceshulk



Category: Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Father-Son Relationship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-07
Updated: 2018-03-07
Packaged: 2019-03-28 01:26:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13893324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aceshulk/pseuds/aceshulk
Summary: Five vignettes of Hojo and his son at five times in Sephiroth's life, including two birthdays. Slight canon divergence for Sephiroth's age. One-shot. Cross-posted from FF.Net. Original publication date 8-3-17.





	Unfortunate Son

The baby had a rounded face like its mother’s, ears that were unmistakably its father’s. But the matted hair, when it was finally cleaned off, was silver like Jenova’s. Otherwise human biology and anatomy. A normal infant, a little small but otherwise healthy.

Its tiny hand was gripping his finger when he heard Gast’s soft voice beside him. “Oh, isn’t he a beautiful child.”

Hojo removed his finger from the child’s grasp and grinned as widely as he could. “Say hello to little Sephiroth. The fruits of our labor.”

“Of your wife’s labor,” Gast corrected. He felt the baby’s soft skin and ran his hand delicately over its hair. “How is she?”

Hojo’s expression dropped. “She’ll be fine, but she keeps insisting on seeing him.”

“Hojo, she’s only human. You didn’t carry him for nine months.”

“I know.” _But it wasn’t her idea_ , he thought. And this was Jenova’s child as much as it was theirs. This was a child with the power of the Ancients. “You’re far too soft, Gast. You forget that this is an experiment.”

“You’re not at least going to have him breastfed?”

“Why would I have any use for her now that she’s given birth?”

Gast shook his head. “Despicable. Do you ever think of anyone besides yourself?”

Hojo looked at Sephiroth’s chest rising and falling. He was so tiny, so pale. Though he looked helpless (like all babies), he was going to grow into something great.

“He’s my project,” Hojo said, placing his hand on the baby’s cheek. “I decide what’s best for him. I’m in charge. She’s just my assistant.”

Gast folded his arms. “I think you’re just afraid _you’ll_ go soft if you see him with his mother.”

“Fine,” Hojo conceded. “I’ll let her see him. But I’m doing this for him, not for her. Okay?”

Gast chuckled. “You’re so roundabout when it comes to saying you love your wife. You have a family now, you know.”

Hojo turned and left. At the end of the hall he knocked on one of the doors and was let in. He looked at her tear-stained face, her sweaty brown hair tangled around her shoulders and back. Her makeup, still on from yesterday (she’d gone into labor just before a meeting), had run and her glasses had slipped down her nose. She was snoring. He walked up to her and positioned his face right in front of hers. “Boo.”

She gasped. He laughed snidely and she blinked, offended. “Don’t do that. You scared me.” Then her eyes started to moisten. “Am I gonna get to see him soon?”

“If you can stay awake, I’ll bring him.”

“Oh, please do that. I barely got to hold him before you had to check on him. I’m so tired.” She yawned loudly, not even bothering to cover her mouth.

Hojo said nothing and walked back out of the door. As he went to get Sephiroth from the other room, he thought of the baby’s piercing green eyes, his pupils like a cat’s. Sephiroth was a child of not two, but three parents.

\--

“Professor Hojo? Hello?”

That insolent child again. Waking him up at 4 a.m., and for what? Likely something pointless, like “please get me a glass of water” or “could you fix my blankets?” The most irritating part of testing this hypothesis was that the experiment was a living one.

“Professor? Professor Hojo?”

“What, Sephiroth?”

The child’s shoulder brushed past Hojo’s feet at the end of the bed. He walked up to Hojo’s shoulder and looked up toward his face. “I had a nightmare.”

“Everyone has those,” Hojo said. “Don’t you see what time it is? If you don’t go back to sleep, how are you ever going to stay awake tomorrow?”

Sephiroth lowered his head. “But it was really scary. I kept hearing someone talking to me. Someone whose voice I’ve never heard in my life.”

Hojo perked up. “Ah, Jenova.” He’d considered the possibility that Jenova would communicate to Sephiroth in his lifetime, but hadn’t anticipated a connection this early. “Your mother.” Lucrecia would have probably killed him for saying that, but he didn’t care—the child was a surrogate to Jenova’s abilities, and would be Hojo’s means of testing the hypothesis. It was only right Sephiroth should grow up keeping that name, and not Lucrecia’s, paramount in his mind.

“Professor Hojo?”

Hojo rolled over to face Sephiroth. His green eyes were like lanterns in the darkness. “What?”

“If Jenova is my mother, what happened to my father? Professor Gast said my parents are dead.”

Hojo felt an odd twinge in his heart. Something leapt into his throat. On impulse, he said, “That would be me.”

Sephiroth staggered back onto his heels. “You’re my father?”

If anything, he made Sephiroth into who he was. But he felt discomfort with the name. “You won’t call me ‘Father.’ Professor Hojo, no less.”

Sephiroth lowered his head again. “I’m sorry, Professor. Can I please sleep in here? On the floor?”

“Just get a glass of water and go back to bed.”

“I’m scared.”

“You’re eight. That’s old enough to sleep in your own bed.”

“But I’m gonna hear voices again!”

“You shouldn’t be scared. She’s your mother.”

“But I don’t like her. I don’t _want_ a mother!”

“Quiet,” Hojo said. He frowned. If Sephiroth didn’t learn to like carrying Jenova’s genetic material, that could be a problem. “I assure you, she loves you in her own way. But being in the Lifestream for eight years may have fogged her mind.”

“What does it matter? I already—” He looked away and clutched his elbow. “I already have a father. That’s enough. My mother is gone.”

“What do you think she’d say to that?”

Sephiroth didn’t respond. Hojo got out from under the covers, sliding into slippers to cover his knobby feet. “I’ll walk you back to your room. But enough after this. This discussion is pointless. You can believe as much as you want that Jenova doesn’t care about you. But remember, I was there before you were born. I saw how happy she was about you.”

Sephiroth was silent as they walked back to his quarters. Hojo watched as he got back into bed, then he pulled the covers up under his son’s chin.

Sephiroth closed his eyes. Then, just as Hojo had started for the door, he whispered, “Why can’t I call you ‘Father’?”

Hojo’s shoulders slumped. It was not that he didn’t think of Sephiroth as his son. Nor was it that he didn’t want Sephiroth to think of him as a father. But if he got used to hearing Sephiroth call him “Father,” he might go soft along the way. He might start feeling guilty. And perhaps Jenova would make Sephiroth forget about him anyway, but he couldn’t risk failing to test his hypothesis because of a few petty emotions.

“Forget I told you that,” Hojo said.

“Why?”

“Don’t ask so many questions. Just call me Professor like before.”

“Okay, Professor. Good night.”

“Good night.”

\--

Sephiroth’s sixteenth birthday had come and gone with no one in the army knowing it. Knowing how quickly his fellow men could die had dissuaded him from forming any friendships. No one would think about his birthday, or care, when they were fighting Wutai resistance troops. Why would anyone care anyway? His personal life wasn’t their problem. War was everyone’s problem.

It was nearly midnight when they finally had a short break from the fighting. Sephiroth fell asleep twice on watch duty and was sent back to his tent. His tentmate, an infantryman, was turned away from him, sobbing into his pillow. It no longer phased Sephiroth. Men cried all the time during war. He had grown out of it.

He was startled when he heard his phone ringing in his pocket. Service all the way out here? He fished it out and flipped it open, pressing it to his ear. “Sephiroth, SOLDIER 1st Class.”

The infantryman stopped sobbing for a moment to exit the tent. At least he offered that courtesy. “Happy birthday,” a nasal voice said on the other end.

“Thank you, Professor Hojo.” If anyone would remember Sephiroth’s birthday, it would be the man who’d raised him. Still, he was a day late. “Why didn’t you call yesterday?”

“Busy, busy. And weren’t you fighting?”

“Yes. Not the ideal way to spend one’s birthday.”

Hojo cackled. “When duty calls, SOLDIER answers!”

“Duty, huh?” Sephiroth sat up on his cot, leaning forward. “Wasn’t wishing me a happy birthday anyone’s ‘duty’?”

“What about your comrades?”

“What use do they have for my personal information?”

“Your logic is somewhat backward, boy. You’re lucky you’re even getting a signal from Midgar. Luckier that old man Shinra pays the phone bill.”

Sephiroth smirked. “It’s good to hear your voice, Professor. It reminds me of home.”

Silence for a moment. Then, “Are you homesick?”

Sephiroth was astonished at the earnest worry in Hojo’s voice. For once, his voice wasn’t so abrasive. “I’m all right.”

“You’re quite certain?”

“Yes.”

“Is it cold over there too?”

Sephiroth rolled his eyes. “It’s December. It’s not exactly going to be nice out. Why are you so worried all of a sudden?”

Hojo laughed—not the usual cackle, but a genuine laugh.

“I’m serious. It’s not like you, Professor.”

“I wish I could see you fighting. I do so enjoy monitoring your progress as SOLDIER. I have no doubt you must be stronger than ever.”

Sephiroth opened his mouth to deliver another smart reply, but closed it just as quickly. What Hojo had said had been earnest and sincere, and to snap back at him, as much as he despised Hojo, would be unthinkable. After all, he’d been the only one to even remember Sephiroth’s birthday, let alone contact him in the middle of a war. And Hojo had raised him. Cared about him. Almost like a father.

“Thank you, sir,” Sephiroth finally said.

“Make me and Shinra proud. I’ve got a department meeting in ten minutes. I’ll contact you at some other time. Good luck.”

“Thanks. Bye.” Sephiroth closed his phone and put it back into his pocket. He sighed, laying back down on the cot.

A few minutes passed before the red-eyed infantryman came back in and asked quietly, “You got service?”

“I was surprised at how good it was.” He pulled the heavy military blanket over himself. “Could you turn off the lantern, please?”

“Yeah.” The infantryman hit the switch and climbed onto his cot, still sniffling. “I miss my mom,” he said.

Sephiroth briefly thought of Hojo and of his mother’s name—Jenova—before he said, “I don’t have either of my parents.”

Silence. Sephiroth immediately regretted divulging that to the infantryman. If the news ever got out to the public, Shinra would have a hell of a time trying to cover up his personal information. But the infantrymen he had shared a tent with so far had seemed ignorant of his identity, other than that he was SOLDIER. He was glad for that.

“Then who called? Your girlfriend?”

“None of your business.”

“Sorry. Good night. Name’s Wesley, by the way.”

“Good night, Wesley.” Sephiroth turned over and stared at the ceiling for a few minutes, thinking of home. How the Shinra building and Midgar had been the only places he’d seen up until a few years ago when he joined SOLDIER and was immediately promoted to 1st. Home was a lab and a city. Wide open fields, caves, rivers, and forests, if they weren’t in the simulation, still felt alien to him.

\--

Even after the war’s end and the horrors he’d witnessed—comrades and lovers cut down by spears and swords—Sephiroth didn’t have much reason to question his will to fight for Shinra, and he still felt happy. His twenty-third birthday was approaching, and he had two dear friends already making plans to celebrate with him. On his birthday, if he didn’t have to go on assignment, they’d spend the day in Sector 6. The day before his birthday—Friday—he had made plans with Professor Hojo.

Now well into his twenties, Sephiroth still struggled to reconcile his hatred for Hojo with his genuine sense of gratitude toward him. He mostly detested the company of others, but Hojo’s brashness and bluntness were surprisingly refreshing. It reminded Sephiroth of what others said about him. _You’re so blunt. You never hesitate to say what’s on your mind._ Perhaps those were inherited traits.

Hojo had said Sephiroth should forget. Perhaps Hojo forgot he’d told Sephiroth. Either way, he knew who his father was. But he didn’t dare talk about it around any other person. Keeping the secret drove a wedge into his heart. Half of it wanted to call Hojo “Father,” just to see what might happen. That was the half that loved Hojo, loved his father. The other half of his heart was the bitter and spiteful half that wouldn’t dare let Hojo know (remind him?) that he’d told Sephiroth, the half that reminded him they could never have a normal father-son relationship.

Hojo had said to meet at Goblins Bar at 18 hours. He got there at 18:13 precisely, after ten or so minutes of Sephiroth checking his cell phone and watch. They were shown to their table and began to peruse the menu.

“They may not cater to you,” Hojo said.

“I’m sure I’ll find something.” Sephiroth did hate to ask restaurants to leave out things or to try to get something specially ordered. But Hojo had insisted it was a treat.

Once they’d ordered, the waitress brought a basket of rolls for them. Sephiroth cut his roll into pieces and ate it with his fork. He’d gotten halfway through his second roll when Hojo said, “Use your hands.”

“They aren’t for eating, and there’s a reason utensils exist.” He closed his mouth and picked a bit of bread off of his teeth using his tongue. “Aside from that, rolls are greasy sometimes.”

“So what exactly is the merit of eating everything with a fork or spoon?”

“My hands are only as clean as the utensil.”

“You are strange, boy.”

He looked at Hojo’s sloping forehead, how his eyebrows were gradually disappearing. Sephiroth still remembered a youthful bespectacled face, one that wasn’t so wrinkled. The silver streaks in his hair were the same color as Sephiroth’s.

“23, eh?” Hojo said. “Feel any different from 22?”

“Not particularly.”

“No, one year never does. Soon you’ll be as old as I was when you were born.”

Sephiroth’s heart sped up slightly, but his expression didn’t change. “You’re the only one left in the department, with Hollander and Gast both gone.”

“So? It’s not as if I need their help.”

“You think you can manage alone?”

“I’m not that old. You treat me like I’m drooling in a wheelchair.”

Sephiroth laughed silently, holding his hand in a loose fist in front of his face. When Hojo asked “What?” he continued to laugh, out loud this time. “What’s so funny?”

“Oh, nothing.” He remembered Hojo’s voice over the years: _Don’t get so beat up out there._ _Are you homesick?_ _Don’t be too much of a hero._ _Take care of yourself._ _You’re getting stronger._ _My, you’ve improved._ _Hee hee hee, this is just wonderful! Spectacular!_

He sat back in the booth, his arms folded, and looked at Hojo again. He was scowling as the waitresses passed without their order in hand. He really did look smaller and older than before the war. His hair was longer; his glasses were faded around the edges. There were laugh lines at his eyes that Sephiroth didn’t remember from before, wrinkles beside his mouth and on his descending forehead.

A panicked thought of _he’s dying_ passed and went. He couldn’t bear to lose his only parent, the one who had raised him his whole life. The warmth in his heart was overtaking the spite. He wanted to reach across the table and embrace his father as a sort of forgiveness for all the times he’d talked back to him or badmouthed him as an inferior scientist to Gast, a talentless hack.

But then Hojo turned back toward him, and when he looked in his eyes, Sephiroth could not say it. He just couldn’t.

\--

Hojo had finally been offed at the ripe age of sixty-five by a band of mercenaries and Jenova herself. Even after his transformation into various mutated lifeforms, the Jenova had let him die in his own body, and he’d taken care of his final plan just before his demise.

But the dying Planet’s immune system was rejecting him, and he was not completely absorbed into the Lifestream. With the little consciousness he had left, he supposed it was the Jenova still in him. After all, Sephiroth had survived so long because of Jenova. His son had grown so strong. He and Jenova would merge and become a new god, sucking the life out of the Planet until he was reborn. Hojo had one goal as part of the Lifestream now. Godspeed him to Sephiroth.

There was of course a disadvantage to being only partially assimilated. The voices of the Lifestream, which he’d anticipated hearing for so long, were blocked from his ears almost entirely. He could only make out bits and pieces—and one strong voice calling out to him, saying “Hojo! Your son! What the hell have you done?!”

Gast. It had taken thirty years, but finally they witnessed the fruits of the Jenova Project’s labor. Not the strength of members of SOLDIER. Not the success of the Reunion Theory, not the summoning of Meteor using the Black Materia. Nothing short of the birth of a god could possibly be considered the crowning achievement of the Jenova Project. From the very beginning, he had imbued the ambition, drive, and hatred into his greatest creation, empowering it. From nothing, divinity had risen.

He recalled his own words as the Lifestream flowed to the North Crater. _My son needs power and help. That’s the only reason._ He wanted to share in Sephiroth’s power just as he had for the thirty years leading up to this point. They would become one: father, son, and Jenova. As he was nearing the location, Sephiroth’s thoughts became gradually clearer.

_…become a God… immense energy… wound Planet… knowledge of Ancients… summon Meteor…_

“I’m here, my son,” he announced as he saw Sephiroth at the core of the Planet, waiting, with Lifestream swirling around him and creating a cocoon around where he stood in the Planet’s heart. “My dear son. I’ve arrived.”

Of course Sephiroth would not hear. The manifold voices of the Lifestream drowned each other out. Still he felt one last rush of delight in seeing the way Sephiroth meditated peacefully in the middle of the cocoon of Lifestream, how the Mako wrapped around him like a shroud to raise him from mortality to godhood.


End file.
